“I’m paid to stare at you.”
He huffed a laugh. “Not like that.”
That was enough. She couldn’t take any more of him and this alien longing snaking through her ribs like a bramble on a trellis.
“I’ll meet you in the ballroom,” she said and rushed out.
Once the door had slammed behind her, she leaned against the wall, panting. He would be so angry at her. He would say she betrayed him. Asherton had held her hair while she vomited in the grass, lent her his soap, braided her tangled locks. He didn’t deserve this, but he didn’t deserve to die either. It was like cutting off a limb to stop the spread of infection—a necessary agony.
Her stomach soured as she ran down the stairs. She was doing this for him, to save him.
Magdala’s footsteps echoed in the empty ballroom. Sweat shone on her brow and she tightened her lips into a thin line as she took the vial of amenite from her pocket, drew her knife, spat on the blade, and poured the whole contents of the vial into the spit. With the tip of her finger, she mixed it into a paste and spread it down the steel. It dried invisible.
No more procrastination, no more second guesses. It was now or never.
The mural on the walls depicted an amethyst dragon curling through an apricot orchard, its scales shining against the dark green leaves. Birds hopped in the branches, teal-blue wings flapping, bright beaks reaching for golden fruit. A chaotic scene, the backdrop of many chaotic nights. The energy of the room matched her swirling panic.
Magdala imagined Asherton’s rage, how he would shout, how he would fling her betrayal in her face. But she was doing this for him. To save his life. Because his brother was dead, wasn’t he? So couldn’t the curse be real? And if it was, this was the only way to protect him and, in the end, love and hate and Huxley and her father’s royalists could all go to Roz’s nest because protecting him was her duty. And Magdala knew about duty.
Asherton sauntered through the doorway and stopped in the center of the ballroom, searching for her. Framed by gold and grandeur, he should have looked dingy—but he didn’t. Magdala almost believed he had stepped out of the mural, a shard of wild magic broken from its source.
Asherton took a cutlass and slashed the air with it; it whistled menacingly. Magdala stepped out from the shadows, and he started.
“You wicked little cat,” he cried. “Where were you hiding?”
Magdala frowned. She needed to steel her heart. He was her friend, and friends did what was best for one another.
“I prefer knives,” she said.
He set down the cutlass. “I know you do.”
“To first blood?”
Asherton smirked at her. “Oh Mags, don’t be such a flirt.”
She tossed him a knife—a light, gleaming little thing with a blade so sharp, it could cut bone. Asherton caught it deftly and spun it between his fingers, the tip nearly grazing his wrist as he stared back at Magdala, his eyes shining and hungry—for violence? For danger? She wasn’t sure. Not for her, surely.
Before she was ready, he attacked. She spun away from him, her back striking the tall mirror. It bowed under her weight.
“I wasn’t ready!” she cried, angry.
Asherton just laughed as he ran at her again. She ducked under his arm and swept her blade across his stomach, slashing his shirt. Then she dropped to one knee and pivoted, meaning to scratch his leg, but he jumped off of one foot and flipped over her arm in a spectacular feat of acrobatics. He landed gracefully, his hair falling over his eyes.
Magdala stared at him, her jaw slack.
“Why do you look so surprised?” he asked.
Magdala swallowed.
Smiling deviously, Asherton attacked again, his knife catching the light. She whirled away from him, but his blade severed a lock of her hair. It fell at his feet and he stumbled, trying not to trod on it. Magdala took advantage of his distraction and lunged, but he twisted behind her and shoved her. She nearly fell but steadied herself, her rage boiling.
Asherton snorted. “Come on, Mags, nowyou’renot trying.”
With a growl, Magdala charged him. He held his ground until she was upon him, and then dodged so deftly, she could barely track the movement. His hand closed over her wrist. He twisted, pain shot to her elbow, and her knife clattered to the ground.
“Did I make you think I couldn’t fight?” he whispered in her ear. “I’m a prince. I went to military school. Like I said last night—before, I was giving you a chance to kill me because I thought you were the assassin, and besides, it was fun sparring with you. Anyway, I win.”
Magdala didn’t like to lose. And she was determined to give him the amenite powder and be done with him and the miasma of emotions he stirred in her heart.
